


Hurt and Comfort

by ehefic



Series: Gravity [1]
Category: The Last of Us (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Canonical Character Death, Dina POV, During Canon, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25233199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehefic/pseuds/ehefic
Summary: Three times Dina tended Ellie's wounds, and one time she didn't. Then an epilogue. Canon companion piece.COMPLETE
Relationships: Dina/Ellie (The Last of Us)
Series: Gravity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887190
Comments: 58
Kudos: 432





	1. Jackson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson.

Hours ago, she laid you down, pressed against you, her body strong and gentle, her hands sure, a river current. Hours ago, the last pieces fell into place, your hypothesis proven: Ellie is who you’ve been waiting for.

The basement stinks of blood when you open the door. On the ground, three human heaps. Ellie lies closest to you. Her name falls from your lips, panicky. You drop beside her, rouse her, touch her gently all over, looking for damage. Her eyelids peel open—alive. You call for Jesse, sprinting for the door, for help.

Hours ago, you held her, whole. Her body light in your arms.

\--

It takes an hour to coax her away from Joel’s body. Her hysterical sobs fade into hyperventilating, into tears and choked gasps. You hover behind her, touching her arm, her shoulder, sliding your arms around her waist, but she seems not to feel you at all. Her world swallowed by Joel’s crushed skull. Finally you turn her toward you, and she buries her face in your shoulder.

Behind you, you hear Jesse checking Tommy for injuries, hear him rummaging through the house, putting a makeshift sled together. He doesn’t need to tell you it’s to tow Joel home. Once, Jesse steps toward you, makes to speak, but your dark glare makes him stop.

“He won’t get up,” she sobs into your shoulder.

“I know,” you hum, your hands soothing her back, her hands clutching your coat. “I know.”

\--

Your horses pick slowly through the snow drifts, the sled scraping and dragging behind Ellie’s horse. Jesse and Tommy are a speck in the distance, riding ahead to warn Jackson.

“I’m gonna fucking kill them,” she says, her throat clogged. “Fucking kill all of those fuckers.”

“We’ll find them,” you say firmly.

She looks at you, that guarded, hopeful look. For a second, you see her wreathed in warm light, watching you finish her drink and tug her onto the dance floor. Afraid to believe.

You gaze at her, steady. “We’ll make them pay.” 

Her eyes search you. She nods. Her voice wavers as she agrees: “Okay.”

\--

Ellie doesn’t stop at the gates; she rides right past Maria, tending Tommy’s head, and Tommy, waving you both down. You stick with her, bypassing the stables, the sled scraping loudly on the cleared street. Ellie leads you down and around, through the gates of the cemetery. Without looking at you, she slides off of Shimmer and unties the sled lines, her fingers shaking. You dismount and approach her slowly, steadily.

“Can you, uh, take the horses back? I want to…” She looks at the sled, at the blanket covering Joel’s body, now dusted with snow.

“Of course.” You take the reins.

\--

You try to walk from the stables back to the cemetery, but when you get there, you realize you ran. Inside the gate, you hear the scrape of a shovel.

Ellie labors in what looks like a snowbank, fighting the frozen ground under the snow she cleared. She grunts as she works, panting, anger and sadness splashing to the surface. You spot another shovel staked in the snow along the path, and pull it out as you approach.

You circle carefully into her sightline. Her eyes jump to you, but she doesn’t wave you away, just turns back to the hole she’s begun. Her face is puffy, streaked with tears and dried blood, a bruise darkening at her cheek. She shucked her jacket already. She stabs the shovel down, vicious. The tip bites in and stops. She has to stomp the blade over and over for it to sink in.

Across from her, you start work on the other end of the grave. The shovel, the dirt, bring you back to New Mexico: sweating in the fading light, Talia pushing to dig deeper and deeper, afraid the infected will dig up your mother’s body for dinner before her soul can escape. You must have buried her fifteen feet deep. It felt like the center of the earth.

\--

“Ellie, we aren’t burying him til tomorrow,” Maria says when she comes. She squats beside the grave, trying to catch Ellie’s eye. Ellie twists her shovel like a corkscrew, fighting the ground, more ice than soil at this depth. You can see blisters forming on her palms.

Maria glances at you, but you say nothing. “You don’t want to bury him like this,” she says. “Let us… let me clean him up. Tommy is planning a funeral. That way everyone can say their goodbyes.”

Ellie stills her hands, her breathing heavy. She stares at a fixed point in space, past her hands, between the two of you. You feel your breath catch.

“Okay,” she blurts, like a breath knocked out of her. It’s hard to tell if it’s relief or shock.

\--

She lets you lead her away from the graveyard. You take the long way to her place, avoiding foot traffic and prying eyes, warning people away with a look. She looks at the sky or her feet, the whole way, twisting her fingers together nervously.

At the door, she mumbles, “You don’t have to…” as you open the door and steer her inside. You give her a look, but soften it.

“Come on, sit down. I want to look at your head.”

Her voice cracks as you set her on the bed. She clears her throat. “Not sure this is the time to be checking me out,” she jokes. Not even half-hearted.

You ignore the bait, wet a washcloth with warm water, and sit next to her on the bed. “Stay still.” You cup her cheek and gently wipe the blood from her nose and mouth. When you pull it away, she looks wide-eyed at the red cloth, like she forgot.

You fold the cloth and wipe the rest of her face, skimming gently over the blue blooming at her cheek. As you work, you feel her begin to settle, her breathing more steady, her body sinking onto the bed. Her fingers twist together in her lap.

When her face is clean, you take her hands in yours and wash them, too. You scrub firmly, taking your time, wiping the wrinkles of each knuckle, the webs between her fingers, the lifelines on her palms.

“Ellie,” you say. You’ve run out of skin to wash. She meets your eyes as you set the cloth aside, abandoning pretense, and hold her hands, lightly tracing the frayed leaf of her tattoo. You bite your lip, desperate to hear her voice, afraid to push her too hard. “I’m sorry.”

Her face crumples slowly, eyes turning liquid. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out. You see her brow pinch, the dam about to break, and you pull her to you tightly as she starts to cry. Her arms link behind you, fluttering, grasping. Her cheek is cold against you.

\--

“I have to leave,” Ellie blurts, forcing it out in one breath. She watches you warily. “I have to find them. Tommy said we can go with a team. He’s going to talk to Maria about it. But I’m going with.”

“Of course,” you say. You frown. “I’m coming too.”

She falters, stalls. She didn’t expect this. How didn’t she expect this?

“You thought I wouldn’t come?” It stings, but you try to swallow it. “Ellie, you’re not going without me.”

She worries her ring finger. “I just… it’s a lot. I would never ask that of you.”

“I want to—”

“It’s just dangerous,” she crosses her arms and rocks on her heels, “and I know we only just—well, I just mean, you don’t owe me anything, like, you don’t… have to come.”

You can’t help but smile. You cross the space between you and touch her wrists, unfolding them, placing her hands on your waist and linking your arms over her shoulders. As always, she flusters, a blush on her cheeks and her hands twitching against you. Even now, more heartbroken and somber than you’ve ever seen, she’s still adorable. There’s a tug at your heart, like the pull of a string, a magnet between you.

“Ellie.” She bites her lips; you look her deep in the eyes, holding her here, holding her with you. “Where you go, I go.”

She struggles with a shaky breath, fighting the instinct to doubt, to second-guess. You check her eyes, one then the other, back and forth.

A small smile curls her lips. “Okay,” she whispers, allowing herself to believe. “Okay.”


	2. Seattle 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seattle Day 2.

“Oh, thank goodness, your feet still stink. I was worried,” you joke to Jesse, setting his boots next to the couch.

He rolls his eyes and looks at something behind you. “How are things going?” he asks, voice low. He means Ellie.

“They’re okay. Wish I didn’t feel like shit today,” you admit. “Feels kinda useless just hiding out here. I came here to help her.”

“Hey, I’m sure you’re helping her plenty, D.” He gives you his earnest look. It makes you feel suddenly, deeply tired. Talking to him always makes you feel like you’re moving backward.

“Well, I’m glad she ran into you,” you say, standing up. “I mean, ‘cause otherwise your dumb ass would get killed out there.”

He laughs. “Yeah, right,” he boasts. He says something else; you check over your shoulder and sure enough, Ellie is gone. She’s probably worried you’ll leap back into Jesse’s arms because of the baby.

You hold a hand out for his coat, then toss it on the table. “You look like you need some beauty sleep,” you say. He rolls his eyes again. “I’m gonna go check on her.”

\--

Upstairs, Ellie’s sewing a cut on her arm. She looks up when you enter, then down when you mention Jesse’s name. You tug her back to you: “Hey. Let me do that.”

She lets you, at least. Your palm skims her arm; you can’t stop yourself. Reaching for her feels inevitable, inexorable. Your hand settles at her bicep to hold her steady while you sew.

“He’s a good guy,” she says. Giving you an out.

When you first left for Seattle, she started asking questions about Jesse. Tentative. Filling in the negative space, trying to draw conclusions from the outline left behind. She never asked you why things ended. You suspected she was afraid of the answer—that Ellie was temporary, a pit stop, and Jesse the destination. For you, it's the reverse.

You treat the statement like it is: true, but unimportant. “Mm-hmm,” you hum, focused on her skin warming from the cold, on the wound puckered under the needle.

She watches you, her gaze palpable. “Why didn’t you tell him?” she asks. Not the question you expected.

“Wasn’t the right time,” you say. You think of the dream you had that you were afraid to share: Ellie in your little house in Jackson, cradling a child, humming some stupid song. You’ve had it three times since then.

You press a slow, deliberate kiss to the tidy row of stitches. “There you go.” It comes out softer than you expect. Your hands drift down her arm, reluctant to let go. They fall when she moves to pull her sleeve down.

She pulls away, turns away—afraid, maybe, or feeling out of place. You tuck your chin, sad to see her withdraw, sad to see she still doesn’t trust you, not quite. The small room feels huge, the space between you a gulf.

“Anything worthwhile?”

A pivot to the mission. Transparent. You clear your throat, clogged with the things you were ready to say to try to bring her back to you. You come up beside her, refocusing.

“Uh, actually, yeah.”

“Abby?”

You glance at her, a step behind. “Uh, no.” You find the photo. Point. “This girl, Nora. Her unit was assigned to this hospital. They were collecting supplies or something.”

Her face is tight, focused. Something about her unsettles you. There’s no air around her, tonight. No jokes. Not even her self-consciousness, her awkwardness. She seems naked without it—cold. Like an unsheathed knife.

“This hospital?” She points at the map. The leaves of her tattoo reach toward it with her, shifting on her skin.

“Yeah.”

One breath, just one, and she flies from you: focused, cold.

“Wait, you’re gonna go now?” You can’t keep out the edge in your voice, a glimpse of anger and disbelief. It’s late, dark, wet outside. It feels wrong. It feels dangerous.

She doesn’t look at you. “Yeah, we have a lead.”

A sigh comes out, annoyed. Your eyes try to roll and you look aside. “Like, at least just wait for Jesse to rest up—”

“She could be gone by then.”

Her eyes finally catch yours, and you shake your head, too tired to fight her. “Ellie…”

“We know her location.” Ellie looks at you, entreating. You glimpse the Ellie you know: a little too clever, a little too earnest. Trying to convince you. “Maybe Tommy does too.”

Ellie. Not the knife.

“What?” she pushes.

You want to push back. This feels dangerous—desperate. But you can tell if she stays, she’ll fight you, instead.

So you release it. A big breath. “Nothing.”

Ellie hesitates. She thought you would push. She underestimated how tired you feel. “Good,” she says, uncertainly.

As you hook the chair across the doors behind her, you feel suddenly, urgently, like you need to go after her. You grip the chair again to pick it up, to throw the doors open and call her back, and then a wave of nausea knocks you to your knees.

When you recover, pull the chair off, rush through the doors, there’s no sign of her.

\--

It’s been an hour since she left when Jesse wakes up. He sits up, says something to be funny, then frowns. “Why are you sitting by the door?”

“She went back out, on her own.” You rub your palms against your thighs. “I told her a lead I got on the radio, about one of them set up at a hospital. I tried but she wouldn’t wait. She wouldn’t even wait for you to wake up.”

“Shit.” He sits upright, leans his elbows on his knees. “How long?”

“It’s been an hour. She should just be getting there now. It’s not close.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “I had a bad feeling about it. I even…” You glance at the door and trail off. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right.”

He pulls his boots over and starts putting them on. “I should go after her.”

“You’d take longer to find her than she’ll take to get back. _If_ —” You swallow the rest, burrow it inside instead of giving it voice: _If she gets back_.

Jesse hesitates, one boot half-tied. He adjusts in his seat and gives you a thoughtful look. Being alone with him feels weird now. After weeks alone with Ellie, he seems too square, too sure.

You’re too nervous to keep your thoughts inside, even though you don’t really want to talk to him about Ellie. “She seemed off tonight, before she left. Not herself.”

He considers you. “Yeah, she kind of ran off when we got back.” He clicks his tongue. “I, uh, don’t think she loves seeing you and me together.”

“It’s not fucking funny, Jesse.” You look away, nauseous and angry. “What if she gets herself killed?”

Jesse’s smart ass doesn’t have anything to say to that.

\--

“Are you happy? With Ellie?” Jesse asks, a while later. You’re trying to calculate the distance in your head, trying to decide when she could be back, when she should be back—and then when to worry, when to go search for her.

You heave a sigh and rest your head in your hands. “Are you really gonna fucking ask me that right now, Jesse?”

There’s nothing for a moment. Then: “I’m not trying to be a dick, Dina. I just still care about you. I want you to be happy. She’s my friend. I want you both to be happy.” You look over at him; he rubs his neck, awkwardly. “I know you and I are done.”

You laugh once, in disbelief. Throw your hands wide. “Just what the fuck do you want me to say?”

He looks stung. Good.

“Yeah, we actually are really fucking happy, aside from the fact that we’re here in this hellhole getting shot at and kidnapped every day, hunting a needle in a haystack with no end in sight.” Your stomach twists and you wince. “Is that what you wanted to hear? You sat there for half an hour thinking it over and decided, yeah, let’s make Dina tell me about how crazy in love she is while I sit there looking like a kicked puppy?”

He puts his hands up in surrender. “Alright, okay.”

You sigh and scrub your hands over your face. You stand up so you can pace. After a few minutes, the pain starts to ease. “I’m sorry, I’m really worried about her,” you say quietly.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” he says. After a beat, he adds, “Maybe I shouldn’t have come after you guys. I thought we were good, but when we got back…”

You look over at him and wait.

He shrugs. “I dunno. When you hugged me I thought she was gonna throw up.”

“Yeah.” You rub your eyes and sigh. “I… yeah. Well, I am kind of glad you showed up, since I ended up being more burden than backup.”

“Apparently it didn’t do much good. I can’t believe she went back out tonight. I was ready for a twelve hour nap after that car chase shit.”

“What can I say, my girlfriend’s a badass.” It sounded funny in your head, but out loud, it feels hollow.

Jesse smiles at you. “Ooh, she’s your girlfriend now, huh?”

“Well—”

There’s a steady knock at the door.

\--

“Ellie.” In relief, you pull her into your arms, but she doesn’t touch you. You feel her shaking; you release her, careful. She looks wrecked—covered in blood, her face frozen, eyes glazed. “Are you okay?” Her lips move, but no sound comes. She nods, maybe. Steps inside. Her steps look unsteady.

Ellie pulls the map from her pocket and unfolds it, staring at the air in front of her. Her hands shake as she points. “She’s hiding out in the… in this aquarium.” She blinks, tries to look at Jesse, fails.

This time, you pivot her, away from the mission. “Okay,” you say, as gently and evenly as you can. You ease the map out of her hand and hold it toward Jesse, watching her face, touching her elbow, her back. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She lets you guide her to the dressing room in the back. She keeps staring into space, sometimes flinching at nothing, otherwise numbed.

“Hey.” She shuffles to a stop; when you lift her bag, she pulls her shoulders back, her arms opening like thin, broken wings. You set her bag down with one hand and grip her shirt collar with the other, keeping her still, anchoring her to you. She lets you peel off the overshirt. “Here, sit. I’ll get water, just stay here.” Your fingers skim her arm, her shoulder. She says nothing.

In the other room, you squeeze the shirt in your hand absently. It feels heavier, looks darker, splotchy with blood. Whose? Your hands are shaking, too.

You plug the sink with the shirt and pour some water in to soak it, then bring a pail and cloth back to the dressing room. Ellie’s face is pained, frozen. There’s that tug at your heart: sharp this time, like a crack, or a tear.

Setting the pail down, you tap her arm. You keep your voice even, normal: “Arms up.”

You peel her undershirt off, holding it away from her skin. A shaky sigh. You cover your relief: Most of the blood isn’t hers. She has bruises, cuts. No lurking mortal wound. It’s only at this moment you realize your heartbeat is hammering in your ears.

Slowly, calmly, you step around and sit behind her, wringing out the cloth over the water. Ellie rocks, just a little. It feels like she’s starting to cry, but in super slow motion, each second drawn out over minutes. Her head droops, and you glance at her as you gingerly touch the cloth to the first cut. She gasps, quiet.

“I made her talk,” she blurts.

Your heart sinks. You noticed, yesterday: _five minutes with my knife_. You tried to temper her then, to guide her gently; you wish you’d pushed harder, or pulled, or looked her in the eye. It’s been hard to catch her eye, since you got to the city.

She claps a hand over her mouth. Breathes out. Horrified.

“Hey.” You press the cloth into her skin, place your free hand on her side, feeling her ribs. “It’s okay.” She draws another ragged breath and you fold your arms around her, digging your nose into her shoulder, searching for her scent below the iron and sweat. Her skin is cold, clammy, even though the old theater is warm.

Ellie grips your arm, suddenly sure and firm. “I don’t wanna lose you,” she whispers.

You breathe in and shudder. It’s a relief, in a way, after the Ellie who left earlier, the Ellie you didn’t recognize, who barely spared a word for you. “Good,” you whisper in her ear. You squeeze tighter; rock her; stamp a hard kiss at the base of her neck. Her body feels thin in your arms: delicate, breakable. “So don’t lose me.” It sounds a little desperate. Maybe you are a little desperate.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispers. She must feel you stiffen because she adds, “I don’t know if I can get up tomorrow and go out and h-hurt people like that again.”

“Ellie…” You squeeze your eyes shut. How can you say this, so she’ll hear you?

She gulps. “What?”

You search for some wisdom you can offer. What would you have done, if you found Talia’s killers? Was there any price you wouldn’t have paid?

You take a breath and take a risk.

“You… don’t have to be like Tommy and Joel.” She goes rigid against you, but you push on. “You can do things your own way.” You press your hand against her heart, willing her to hear you.

She trembles; squeezes your arm; then leans forward heavily, breaking your embrace, holding her face in her hands. You fight a sigh—fight tears—and pick up the washcloth. Wipe her skin clean.

Hours ago, you could have made her stay. Maybe today was your last day with Ellie. Your Ellie.

\--

Ellie falls asleep in the dressing room. She must be exhausted, to pass out half naked, with you still scrubbing the creases of her palms. She doesn’t look peaceful.

You wring out her rinsed shirt and lay it out next to her. Turn out the light and creep out of the room. You’re thinking about where you left the blanket when another bout of nausea hits.

\--

Bent over a bucket for the thousandth time in two days, you hear someone at the door and smile, instinctive. But it’s Jesse’s voice that says, “Dina?”

\--

Jesse tries to ply you with trail mix from his bag and almonds from yours, but nothing stays down. He sets you up with a blanket on the couch, a bucket at the ready, and worries over you while you drink water and take slow, deliberate deep breaths.

“You really don’t want me to wake her?” he asks again, skeptical.

You hedge for a moment, still deciding how much to share with him. Ultimately, you’re too exhausted and anxious to be strategic. “Let her sleep,” you insist. “She was… really fucked up”—you wince and swallow bile—“when she got back.”

He taps his thumbs together, leaning forward on his knees. His default worry posture. “What, um, exactly went down?”

You look at him, and you’re not sure what your face looks like, but it makes him nervous.

“I just mean, she looked like, I dunno, she’d just been in a car wreck or something. But I was just in a car wreck with her this afternoon and she wasn’t like… that.”

Glancing at the theater doors, feeling the distance between you and Ellie, you take a long drink of water and force it down. “I’m not sure,” you say, not totally lying. “But it was someone else’s blood.” You stare at the cup, at the water rippling in your unsteady hands. You glance at the doors again, feeling guilty you told him anything. You add a deflection: “I think it’s just starting to add up. It’s been a long couple days.”

Your stomach flips and you dive for the bucket. Jesse doesn’t ask again.

\--

You open the door and Ellie is there, but her clothes are wet, deep red, her face spotted with blood, her hands crimson. _I’m fine_ , she says. _I just need a shower_.

Stunned silent, you follow her, and you’re in her apartment in Jackson, watching her step under the showerhead, clothes and gear and guns and all. She turns on the shower and the water is red, too.

 _Why are you looking at me like that?_ she asks. She gives you that sweet, sassy smirk. _Like what you see?_

You cover your mouth, horrified. _Ellie, what have you done?_ you ask.

She looks at you, confused. The water turns clear and as the red washes off, it reveals stained clothes and twisted, broken limbs, convulsing like a runner. She looks down, and then looks at you, terrified, the infection spreading fast.

_I don’t know if I can do this._


	3. Seattle 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seattle Day 3.

When you wake, it’s Ellie above you. Dressed. Alive. Whole. “Hi,” you croak.

She smiles a little, but it looks sad. “Hey, babe.” She takes a deep breath, looking you over. You hope—for a moment, but she says, “I need you to lock the door for us.”

You tamp down your disappointment. “Okay.”

She helps you up, avoiding your eyes. Guilt sheds off her in waves. “I, uh.” As you stand, you wince and clutch your stomach. “I heard you had a rough night,” she mumbles. Awkward; guilty.

“I’m okay,” you say, rubbing your face on your sleeve.

“Dina,” she says.

For a second you’re angry. Ever since Joel died, she’s been _fine_ and _okay_ , and you never call her on it. But the anger passes in a moment. “Really,” you say, crossing the lobby. “Just need to lie down a while. Hang out with my trusty bucket.”

You offer her a smile; she returns it, equally unconvincing.

“Are you going to the aquarium?” you ask. You don’t see Jesse anywhere.

“Yeah. Jesse’s already outside. We, uh, we’re gonna go try and get Tommy.” She’s playing with her fingers, avoiding your eyes. Omitting something.

You squeeze your eyes shut, too tired to pry anything out of her. When your eyes open, she’s just standing there, fiddling, glancing at you and away and back again. You feel heartache.

“Ellie…” You reach out and she steps into your orbit, hesitant. You move closer and touch her face, holding her steady in your gaze. “Please be careful. I—” You swallow and she looks down. You guide her eyes back to yours. Force the words out. “I don’t want to lose you either.”

Her eyes turn liquid. She bites her lips into her mouth, then laughs a little, nervously. “Okay.”

“I love you,” you say, still holding her, anchoring her.

A soft smile. A real one this time. “I love you too, babe,” she whispers.

She gives your hand a squeeze, takes a breath, and ducks out the door. The door swings shut slowly; the latch is loud. You sigh and hook the chair back across the bars. You close your eyes and say a prayer.

\--

 _What is it?_ you asked, nose scrunched up. The naked lines looked ugly and shapeless. You touched them, tripping over the tendons in Ellie’s wrist.

 _It’s a fern,_ she said, annoyed, pulling her arm back and touching the lines herself.

You craned your neck to see the crook of her elbow. _What’s that? Over the burn?_

Ellie touched the spot, self-conscious. _It’s a moth._

_Gross. Why a moth?_

She glared and slapped your hand away. _None of your business, nosy._

 _Let me see._ You grabbed her wrist and pulled; traced the outline with your index finger. Her breath brushed your ear. It just looked like a bug, stretched over the bubbled skin. _Is it, like, because it’s a burn? And moths like flames?_

She didn’t answer, frowning at the tattoo and your finger. _Um, I guess it could be._

You let go and shook your head. _I dunno, I wouldn’t let Cat do anything permanent on my body._

Ellie snorted. _What’s your beef with Cat anyway? You liked her fine until…_ She frowned, thinking back.

 _I like Cat fine,_ you said quickly, looking away. _I just like your arm too. Don’t want her to fuck it up._

 _You don’t think it looks cool?_ Ellie twisted her arm, considering it. _Maybe just because it’s only line art. It’ll look cool when it’s done._

\--

A knock brings you out of a deep sleep, feeling feverish. You walk slowly to the door, leaning on furniture. Jesse comes in first, then Tommy, holding Ellie. Jesse and Tommy dive right in; Jesse locking the door, Tommy already recounting a heroic rescue, bitching about not finding Abby. You only have eyes for Ellie, huddled under Tommy’s arm, looking young, small. You squeeze your eyes shut and suck in a deep, pained breath. When you open your eyes, Ellie is there, centered on you. Her face is open to you. For a second, you feel like she’s going to kiss you.

She gathers your blanket and brings you to the back dressing room, where someone left a pillow earlier. You wait, but she doesn’t say anything. She guides you onto the makeshift bed, sits you down, then sits behind you and gently rubs your back. It feels so good your eyes start tearing up.

You sniff; rub your nose; swallow, hard.

“How was, um.” It’s hard to think straight. “Did you go to the aquarium?”

Ellie’s hands stutter, then continue. “Y-yeah.” You wait, breathing to the rhythm of her hands, slow and steady. “Abby… wasn’t there.”

You tilt forward, slowly, and turn a little to look at her. She glances at you, away, back again. You gather breath. “So—”

“Tommy and Jesse are planning a route home,” she says, in a rush. “We’re… it’s time to leave. We—It needs to be done. Needs to be over.”

You turn more toward her and catch those nervous hands in yours. “Ellie…” She looks at you reluctantly. “Can you live with that?”

She sucks in a shaky breath and sighs it out. Her gaze washes over your face and she gives you a melancholy smile. She lifts the tail of her shirt to your face and wipes the cold sweat from your brow. “I have to, I guess.”

It’s not very convincing, but you have time to talk about it, now. On the trip home. The thought gives you a dose of relief.

“Hey.” She cups your face in her hands and love surges to the surface, past the fear and worry, past the nausea and pain. She looks at you, smiling, and says, “You should get some rest. Then we’ll get the fuck out of this rainy ass place. What do you say?”

You laugh, a little watery. “That sounds pretty fucking good, El.”

\--

Two days after you left Jackson, Ellie finally started to thaw. You dished up dinner and she sat right next to you, overlapping you. It felt like a lifetime since she reached for you first—since Eugene’s, really. As night fell, she tipped her head against your shoulder; traced her fingers over your knee.

 _Did you know?_ she asked, out of nowhere. _When you invited me to the dance. Did you… Were you already planning to kiss me?_

You grinned at her—so brave, but so bashful—and tried not to let her see. _Yeah, I was, actually._

You were about to say more—to tell her the whole story; the journal, the picture, the reason you left Jesse—but she took an unexpected turn instead: _Do you still like me now? When I’m… I’ve been different, since…_ She sighed, retreated from your shoulder, hugged her knees. Then looked at you, that bruised-heart look.

You looked at her sadly and smiled, shaking your head. What to do with this girl? You reached out to cup her cheek. _Ellie—_

\--

You wake to a crash outside. You surge to your feet, scan the room—your bag’s in the front. You left a knife on the table. You hear a scream. Ellie. You grab it and burst through the door.

In an instant, time slowed by adrenaline, you see Abby over her, pummeling her. You hear a cry—your own—and shove her off, slashing with the knife. You feel the metal bite skin and then pain blooms in your shoulder, fast and hot. You gasp and for one tenuous moment, you test your fingers, try to grip the floor.

Fingers grip your hair and you fall into darkness.

\--

Fire in your shoulder. Your eyes roll and refocus. Ellie tosses a broken arrow aside and pushes something against the wound. You gasp and grasp at her, weak, your head swimming. Ellie’s face is a bloody mess.

“Shh,” she says, half hysterical herself. She moves from view, then lifts your head onto something soft. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. You have to be okay. Dina.” Tears streak the blood. Her hand presses your shoulder, touches your face, presses your shoulder. Flitting back and forth.

“El… lie…”

She catches your hand, kisses the knuckles. “Can you hold this?” she asks, her voice thin and reedy. She presses your hand against the cloth at your shoulder and you wince, then nod. “Yeah? I’m gonna get water. I’ll be right back. I’m gonna get water.”

She stumbles to the back room you came from. You focus on the cloth and breathe forcefully, two breaths in for each breath out, like Talia used to do. The ceiling seems to swim. Talia. You try to say a prayer, your lips fumbling. You can’t remember the word for…

\--

 _The sunset is beautiful here,_ Ellie says. She’s looking at the desert, full of deep purple and orange, the desert you see on a postcard. She leans on the porch railing, her hands twitching.

 _This isn’t right,_ you try to say.

Ellie points behind you. _The baby’s inside._

What baby? You turn and walk inside. There’s a crib in the center of the room. You walk up and look in. The crib is full of snakes.

\--

“Dina, wake up, please wake up.”

You struggle awake. As soon as you do, your stomach revolts again and you twist away from Ellie’s voice and throw up water and acid.

“Thank god,” she says, babbling, “you wouldn’t wake up, I thought, I was so scared.”

Things look sharper now. A thick spiderweb of dried blood covers Ellie’s face. You feel her hand under your back, supporting you.

“God, Ellie,” you mumble, sitting up. She tugs your top button open, one-handed, and peels the fabric back from the wound. You wince. “Your arm…”

“Yours first.”

\--

You sit on the floor, washing each other’s faces. You check Ellie’s nose for a break. Her shoulder is dislocated, her shooting arm almost useless. She sews your shoulder closed, both sides, struggling to stitch left-handed.

Together, you wrestle Tommy upright, treat his leg, and wait for him to wake.

You wash Jesse’s ruined face and murmur Talia’s prayer for the dead. It’s the only prayer you know by heart. You’ve said it so many times.

\--

Halfway back to Jackson, she sits down beside you on the bedroll and you gather your courage.

“Ellie,” you say, quiet so Tommy won’t hear. “I need to talk to you about something.”

You can almost hear her jaw clench. “It was just a panic attack. I—I don’t know what happened.”

You turn to her and she looks everywhere but you.

“It’s not that,” you say, although you do need to talk about it sometime. She meets your eyes, guarded. You take a breath. “I need to know what you’re thinking comes next,” you say. You tuck her hair behind her ear. “When we get back to Jackson. Is this… over? Or are you going to turn right around and run back after her?”

Her jaw shifts. You let her think a moment, then clear your throat.

“I never knew who killed my sister. I looked for leads for…” You shake your head. “But I was alone. I had to give up, move on. Find some way to live on my own. And I think otherwise…” You steel yourself. “I think if I’d tried to hunt them, to the bitter end, it would have destroyed me. It would have killed me, too.”

You see her eyes cloud, feel her begin to retreat into herself. You take her face in your hands, willing her to stay. “Please listen,” you say. It must sound desperate, because she forces herself to look at you.

“I struggled a long time with surviving.” She startles, and you hold her steady in your hands. “But if I let Talia’s death become my life, I would never have known I could have something else to live for.”

You skim your thumb across her cheek and catch tears. On impulse, you pull her in and kiss her hard, desperate. “You, Ellie. You’re what I’m living for. You.”

Ellie stares at you, expression unreadable.

“Just—think about it, please,” you say, a little awkwardly, when she doesn’t answer. Suddenly she hugs you tight, crying quietly against your chest.

You hold her, broken. Feather-light in your arms.


	4. Santa Barbara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santa Barbara.

The path to the beach feels inevitable, inexorable. No other direction to turn. No other possible end.

Ellie doesn’t decide to hold a blade to a kid’s throat. She sees it happen like a video game, like she’s looking through a camera high above her. When she glimpses the knife in her own hand, it almost startles her.

Abby fights hard for someone tied up and left for dead on some godforsaken beach. The blows feel welcome. It feels like there’s no downside. If she wins, she banishes her ghosts, her demons. If she loses, she won’t care anymore. An end to trying and failing. An end to disappointing people.

Abby fights beneath her, the water churning red, her throat thick and pulsing with life, with the will to live. Ellie knows she won’t finish it if she thinks of anything else, so she gropes in her mind for Joel, for the sickening _snak_ of the golf club, for the nightmares since where she stands over him with a pipe, or he bleeds out on the floor next to the pregnant stranger at the aquarium.

It doesn’t come. Instead she sees Joel on his porch, strumming his guitar. The night that should have been their new beginning. _I would like to try._

It’s too much. She throws herself off, gasping.

_I know you wish things were different, but they ain’t._

\--

The seconds feel like centuries. Ellie watches Abby’s boat fade into the mist, absently twisting her fingers, the stubs stinging in the saltwater.

For the first time, she lets herself tally up the cost. Joel. Jesse. Tommy’s leg. Part of his soul. Most of hers. Dina. Two fingers, now. And the last payment, the one she couldn’t make.

“I have to let you go, Joel. It has to be enough.” She looks up at the sky, the fog. It feels like she’s crying. It’s hard to tell.

She wasted two years with Joel, being angry. Even more afterward, when he was gone. How different things would have been if she’d listened to Tommy, old Tommy, back in her old house in Jackson, that day he said he wanted to do things smart and it couldn’t be done.

Ellie forces herself back to the night she left. Dina in the kitchen, asking, then pleading. Dina will never forgive her.

A stab of pain in her hand. It clenches and she thinks about Joel, on the porch. Telling him the same thing. _I don’t think I can ever forgive you for that. But I would like to try._

She swallows and looks at the boat. She knows what to do now.

\--

Ellie has almost no supplies left. In truth, she never planned beyond this point. She left wanting to kill Abby, but she had expected the journey to kill her, too, one way or another.

She beaches the boat far from the resort, in sight of what looks like a town. She raids a discount pharmacy for medication, bandages, and a box of energy shots to keep from passing out. Finds a spot to hole up. Finds a new jacket. She lost Joel's on the road to California.

After she re-stitches her hip, she bites the leather strap of a long gun holster and commits to a messy field cauterization on her hand. She takes some meds and embraces the darkness of unconsciousness.

\--

There is no blood in her dreams tonight. She dreams of string lights, and Dina.

\--

Ellie loses a week to recovery, most of it in and out of consciousness. Then, one morning, she wakes feeling alive and hungry.

She packs the rest of her supplies and sets out to retrace her way north.

\--

The mountain bike cuts her travel time significantly. As she progresses, she starts to weigh her options.

Ellie knows Dina left the farmhouse. There was no ambiguity in their last conversation. Even if there was, the farmhouse is just too much work for one person. It was hard enough before, with Ellie only half present, half useful. Dina has to be in Jackson.

\--

There might be a letter at the farmhouse. Ellie considers that for a full day. What would a letter say that she doesn’t already know? Ellie already knows she fucked up—knew it when she left, knew it while she left. But doesn’t Dina deserve to say her piece?

Maybe, she decides, finally. But it’s more important to find her before something happens, before she leaves or disappears, before she has one more minute to decide she’s done with Ellie for good.

\--

Walking up to Jackson feels like a kick in the teeth. She was someone else, here, once. Probably someone better.

The night guards wake up Maria to vouch for her. None of them were around when she was. She didn’t mean to arrive in the middle of the night, but the closer she’s gotten to Jackson, the lighter and less she sleeps.

Maria meets her inside the gate, coat thrown over her pajamas. “Ellie,” she says warily.

“I know,” Ellie says. She crosses her arms tightly. “Is Dina here?”

Maria frowns and warns, “Ellie—”

“She deserves to know I’m alive,” Ellie says, cutting her off. “I’m not here to pressure her or make her uncomfortable. I’m here to make amends.”

After a moment, Maria sighs. “Are you saying you want to go see her right now? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I can’t let her hear it from anyone but me.”

\--

In the middle of the night, there’s a loud knock. Maria calls out through the door.

You open the door and there’s your ghost.

\--

“You were right,” Ellie says, diving in immediately, before you can speak or run or slam the door. “Abby was never more important than us, or our life. I think I had to leave to figure that out. And you didn’t deserve that.”

“Ellie,” you say, unable to say anything else. Ready to cry, or combust, or scream.

“Please,” she interrupts, holding up a hand to ask for one more moment. You hesitate, annoyed. Maria has disappeared. “I want to do it right this time—if you’ll let me. I want to tell you about—Joel. Because the night before he died, he—I talked to him, and I told him I didn’t think I could forgive him, but I wanted to try. And I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least ask if you might feel the same way.”


	5. Jackson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson.

You rub your knuckles against your chin, thoughtful. “Are you sure you want to go today? You think you’re ready?”

“I do.” Ellie fiddles with her fingers, looking at you, steady. “I’m not sure I really want any of it, but I want to hold Joel’s guitar again. It feels like…” She trails off and makes her new expression, a frown, the one she wears while she pieces her thoughts together so she can explain them to you. “It feels like the right way to really say goodbye. To make peace with him.”

You bite your lips to keep from grinning like a fool. Things are tentative, still, but it’s hard not to be proud of these small steps forward.

“If you’re sure. You should bring your bag in case you want any of your old records.” You fold your arms across your chest. “I couldn’t listen to them after you left. I almost burned them.”

Ellie rubs the back of her neck. “Yeah. Well, maybe we can rehabilitate them.” She smiles, just a little. “I’d hate to never see your sweet moves again.”

You let the smile show this time. “I’ll bet.”

\--

At the door, you stop her with a hand on her back. You turn her toward you, your palms running down her arms, making sure she’s real. Reaching for her feels inevitable, still. Inexorable. Like gravity.

“I promise I’ll be careful,” Ellie says, mistaking your meaning.

You shake your head and take her right hand, lifting it, palm up. The moth flickers in the soft part of her elbow. You wrap your worn hamsa around her wrist.

“You still have that,” Ellie breathes, surprised and reverent.

“It kept you safe in Seattle,” you tell her. “I thought it might bring you back to me.”

Ellie blinks, her eyes suddenly liquid, brimmed with tears. She laughs wetly. “I guess it worked.”

“Yeah.” You swallow hard. “Just come back to me again today.”

\--

“It was weird. I played and it felt right… even though my hand is fucked. It felt like he wanted to stay. He would have loved that house.” Ellie runs her fingers along the seam of the pillow, checking your eyes as she speaks. “I… left him in the window. It. Leaning on the window. Like he could watch over us.”

Her hand comes to a stop, slowly. Her eyes are beautiful in the dark.

“I bet he would like that,” you say, your voice low.

Her nerves seem to settle and she sinks into the pillow beside you. You touch her waist and she leans into you. You hold her, warm and solid in your arms. Whole.


End file.
